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***ACHTUNG! Spoilers for Lichtspeer!***
Also, I've been talking with twistedwindowpane about her plans for the PPC once she gets Permission. Agent Gretchen is hers, she's not mine, neither is Lichtspeer, go play the game, yada yada yada let's get on to the story.

It was just another day in the Department of Suspicious Canon (DSC). Agents were bustling about: walking briskly into generic offices, taking orders from their superiors, and then dashing back out to prepare for departure. One of several departments that had been created or re-opened due to a badfic explosion resulting from an announcement by MachineGames that fanmade content would be accepted for use in Wolfenstein V: The New Mastermind (bad freakin’ idea!), the DSC’s role was to streamline the PPC by marking certain continua as unworthy of protection in the first place. An agent in the DSC was to infiltrate new continua as made-up “fan characters” and search for any signs that the continuum was unworthy, mainly any form of prejudice unacceptable enough to take away any and all enjoyment of the work. The department had become very popular very quickly, with many agents happy that canon writers they hated could finally be done justice. It became known that if you had a vendetta, you could tell a DSC agent and it would be carried out. Sadly, as many of this department had axes to grind, they could quickly become overzealous in their work. One such agent was Agent Gretchen Hollehammer, who worked in the subdepartment led by Huinesoron. Who knows why she behaved the way she did, but anyone who so much as said “gentlemen prefer blondes” within earshot of her would be faced with her wrath. Huinesoron knew this, and perhaps he knew a little bit of her motives, for she’d often hint at things they’d experienced together before. Barely anyone knew what those had been. Today, she entered his office with a stoic expression, as usual awaiting a new mission.

As she sat down, Huinesoron smiled. “Why, hello there. Nice to see you again.”
He didn’t wait for an answer; Gretchen stopped giving answers years ago. “Given the particular causes you support, I have a mission that I think you’d especially like to carry out.”
The young woman nodded, one eyebrow cocked in suspicion.
“Here,” he said, spinning around in his desk chair to retrieve a file and sliding it to her across the desk, then stopping his rotation to prevent embarrassment. In another hopeful attempt to excite her, he added with a dash of her personal slang, “This one doesn’t bite.”
Gretchen took the paper without saying anything. She read through the information as Huinesoron got up and began pacing back and forth, explaining everything.
“This continuum is called… Lick- oh yeah. Leaked-spear. Yeah, the spelling of the name was the first thing that tipped us off. Video game. It’s not new, in fact, it came out on Steam a while back, but a few Youtubers have been spewing out fanmade content about it for years now, and they’re finally popular, which has caused it to rise in the world of fanfic writing. It depicts a glorious ‘ancient germanic future’, with enemies such as ‘Penguin Vikings’ and ‘Wurst Zombies’, several areas and bosses for each, and fantastic technology. And the pinnacle of it all is this extremely blond guy, with a German name of the player’s choice, who wields an energy spear and is on a quest to… bring balance to the universe by killing stuff for the light god, I think it was. Sound like any propaganda from back when?”
His employee was staring rather angrily at the paper she’d received, and she finally spoke. “Definitely.”
“Aha, I’ve got you interested! To top it all off, the game’s motto adds to the fun: ‘Embrace the future. Eat strudel. Play Leaked-spear.’ Or... licked-shpeer.” He began mumbling other attempts at pronouncing “Lichtspeer” under his breath until she called for his attention.
“Huinesoron, my mission.”
“Oh yes, right. You’re going to adventure right alongside our protagonist, since that’s the only perspective given in canon, and pretend to be an ally of his. We’ll put you as one of those overly edgy assassin types, as an explanation for why you’re always so icy cold about everything. Fight alongside him, maybe question any sapient enemies if you can, until you figure out his motives.”
“And if we’re right about said motives?”
“That’s where your fan-made weapon comes in.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a jet-black sword that dimly glowed purple, inlaid with bright green gemstones in the hilt. “This is the Rave Sword.” He held it out to her.
“If it’s any good, you don’t seriously expect me to grab it by the blade.”
“Oh, sorry, sorry.” He stretched his arm out further so that she could take hold of the hilt.
Then Huinesoron continued. “Like all weapons of the Licked-shpeer universe, this weapon has multiple abilities that you’ll get to use to your advantage. You can find those in the Licht shop with the protagonist's weapon's upgrades. Do you understand?”
Gretchen nodded. She turned the sword over in her hands, obviously more interested. “I… I love the way this looks, and I can't wait to see what it does. I’ve always been a sucker for the… the aesthetic of black with glowy bits.”
This made her boss smile. There was a little left of the old Gretchen after all.
The stony look returned to her face. “Is there any other information I need to know?”
Huinesoron thought for a bit, then spoke. “This game isn’t exactly of a genre you’re particularly good at. It may be very difficult to survive, even with this thing helping you. If you’ve got other things coming at you, please focus more on the other things coming at you, and not the German. Okay?”
“Alright.” She started for the door, then turned her head to look at him. “Take note that this is the closest we’ve been so far to the kind of mission I was born to do.”
“I will.”
And so Gretchen left.

The high claxon of the console awakened the ruthless Assassin, Agent Dusk of the Department of Mary Sues. She sighed and pushed herself to a seated position in her bed, extensively running her fingers through her hair to tidy it to the smoothness it had been before she went to sleep. She pushed the covers back, swung her legs to the side in a graceful arc, and stood up out of bed in the same fluid motion, then turned the corner of her Response Center to reach her console.

It took her awhile to read the long fanfiction that greeted her on the console. It was set in the continuum of RWBY, and it starred a Mary Sue named Soluna Destiny, who was the princess of Remnant, initiated a spicy relationship with Ruby Rose, stopped the Fall of Beacon, and had the spectacular semblance of being able to turn her emotions into a magic essence that would immediately solve any problem she was faced with with no need for her to control it. It was the same fare that Dusk had warred and strived against for two months now - the same fare that had cost her her beloved partner.

“If you were still alive, you’d probably remark that I look like Ruby to some degree when wearing my formal attire,” remarked Dusk to the empty, lifeless air. “You always teased me about the things that were related to me in even the most superficial of ways.” The air had no reply for her, no words. If only Agent Cheyenne’s life had left her in a continuum that had some form of life after death, some kind of ghostly form she could use to get up and carry on. Maybe then it wouldn’t be agony. Dusk had been told since being recruited that she shouldn’t take her partner for granted because they might be gone for good, and those older agents could never be more right. Dusk missed her partner and that very fact alone filled her with a mighty vengeance.

The console blared again, clearly angered by the amount of time Dusk was taking to reminisce. “I’m grieving,” she snapped at it. “Do you not understand the concept of grieving?” She dealt it a swift kick, without a care about the consequences, and entered the bathroom to dress herself. Emerging in spandex pants, knee-high lace-up boots, a high-collared shirt, and a jacket with the DMS potted cactus on one sleeve and a Nether Star on the other, she pulled out the disguise generator and selected “Grimm”. “To Remnant I venture”, she mused, and stepped through the portal with a sense of emptiness in her heart.

[Author's Note: This is going to be written similarly to a mission at the beginning, but it'll transform into a larger, greater story as the plot continues. I hope this small bit of enticement makes you anticipatory of what is to come next! Also, WARNING: THERE WILL BE FEMSLASH AND I WILL NEVER STOP WRITING FEMSLASH NO MATTER WHAT YOU TELL ME SO IF YOU'RE A HOMOPHOBE GET OFF THE BOARD!!!

With a salute,
Dusk]

I hope Naya ends up liking the Reader's gift.

The interaction between the Reader and Kozar were nice.

I'm not sure if Kozar using "logical" a lot is T'Zar rubbing off on him or not. If it is, that's a pretty neat little detail.

- Tomash

As a whole bunch of folks have said, this was a good balance between relationship fluff and the mission. I'm hoping Ix and Charlotte manage to have a nice, uninterrupted honeymoon.

Two lines that jumped out at me were the "One does not simply walk into Bree." bit and the callback to the whole "inner wolf" fic.

On a more general note, I think this mission is understandable without the context of your spinoff, but not isolated from it, which is a good thing.

- Tomash

You have somehow managed to pick up on the small details from the most obscure source while missing the most crucial ones from the most obvious sources. How do you do it?

You get points for your actual story having better spelling than your comments, so at least you're making an effort there. That's more than I can say for some. And, though you kinda remind me of my own personal Johnny Snow, D4rkm0k, at least you set up a reasonably interesting cliffhanger instead of just ending it up with "and then they did sex to each other." I admit to being curious to know if the collar is just Gall's shrinking device or if there's actually going to be a bit of bondage in this.

To be clear, though, Thoth is WILDLY out of character. Gall not so much, but dang. PPC canon aside, are you sure you've read any 40k, like at all? I can recommend a few books I found particularly useful, if you like.

Also I don't know what some people have against the word "eyes." Eyes are important! They're the windows to the soul! Why must you turn them into creepy, inanimate orbs and spheres and lamps and whatnot? ... Wait, you didn't use lamps, did you? Do not take that as a suggestion!

--Lemony

(( I am still amused by this. ^_^ ))

My sister burned Shreddies?

I was a 40k fan long pror to seein PPC, so I wantd to writ Toth. Aslo, I alway ssee peolle misineterpet the obviouse and intricate romance arcs thsy have been set up for charsfters. Somekne here's alrwady postend Thlth/Derik—ewww. So wong. Here, I do my bedt to show show clearly what the correct intepretation of the character is for the nimrods. Obviouslu.

--

To Thoth, she had always ben “the lady.” Not that there weren’t others, but viewed through his emereld sight-speres, she was the one that deserved that deserved the most definitiv article. His alien mental complexixon made it hard for him to know what he was feeling: She iritated him, irked him sometimes, but when his gaze meet hers, an electric shock of energy traveleled through him, her ruby hair flowing acros her head like a river as if a magnet to his eyes.

Yes, just the thought of Gal made his heart race. He practically swoneed when he saw her, and it took his warrior sprit concintrated effort to not fall to her silky, seduuctive charms, to melt into her choclatey aura of condifence and desire, to present himself entire before that sner upon her face.

It finally reached it’s breaking point one day, when Thoth was wandring HQ, and bumped right into her. “O-oh… Gall! S-s-sorry…”

Gall smacked him straight across face, a snarlng picture of beauty. “Don’t give me that, ‘Jotun.’ Man up and stop being hestant about everything all the time. Always stutering and bushing… I know you can do beatter.”

Thoth rubbed his hands together, his face tranforming into a mask of flushed crimson even as his his heart began to throtle his brian.

Gall grabbed him close smaked him again, brething hard, her crismon locks glinting as her orbs did. “Go on. Prove you’re a man. Defend yourself. I’ll keep atacking until you do.”

Thoth blushed and rubbed his hands together. It wasn’t as if the smacs hurt, particularly, hed felt worse. But something about them shok him to his core.

Then sudenly, Gall grabed him roughly and shoved him against the wall, and he gunted roughly at the impact, his lungs quivring. Even with all his incredibly stren, he was powerless to defend himself from this scarlet demon. “...Unless, of course, this is just what you want I’ve seen the way you look at me, you saucy boy. Don’t you deny it. And don’t you forget that my ofer still stands… Do you want to get… undepressed, Joton?”

Suddenly, Thoth kised her, his lips locking against hers in an underpressed expresion of need and desire, the moist caverns joining together in perfect union as he releaseed a soft sonic vibraton of pure want, of ecstatic urge, the crimson vixien against him pulling him in closer and pushing her tongue into his mouth in an epression of reciprocatting want that he, in turn, returned. The lady pushed him back further against the bounddary of the hallway, her body and lips hitting his synapses like a wave of heat.

“Yes…” He said. “Please.”

Gall grined. “I thought you would, Jottun. Now all you have to do…” She fished around the comparments of her outfit throwing something to him. “...Is put this on.”

The artice the Astarts now held in his hands was a circlar collar, hen from lether.

--

((Yeah, I am writing one of my own. Hey, I'll branch out sometime, I swear!

Also, 90% of the typos in that intro post are real: Phone keyboards are better at creating plausible badficcers than I ever will be.))

Over the two years Derik and Thoth had known each other, they had settled into a routine. They met in Response Center 2112r weekly, give or take: less often if the Duty interfered, more often if they had the chance or if one of them called for it. Their meetings had a comfortable pattern. First Thoth would lead them in meditation and lofty mental exercises, and then Derik would share a chapter of a book, a poem, or a song. They both expanded their canon knowledge in this way. Often they would discuss the piece afterward, which led to long, rambling conversations about life, the universe, and everything.

The room had slowly altered to reflect the needs of its users. There had once been a console, but then Tom had decided it would be clever to hack his way into it to alert his partner to a pending mission. Thoth had done the Duty, then promptly returned and torn the entire system out of the wall. Building Maintenance had patched the damage with concrit, but hadn’t bothered with especially good concrit, so now that wall was covered with curtains of swirled midnight and cerulean blue velveteen.

Thoth didn’t need much in the way of physical comforts, but he and Derik both had mats to sit on. When not in use, they were stored in a tall cabinet against the bare side wall, along with a pair of metal drinking bowls, a few tea tins and liquor bottles, and the occult paraphernalia of Derik’s psychic education. He was only an empath, and only a receiver at that, but Thoth still occasionally tested him for other manifestations of subtle powers, or engaged him in uses of his own vastly greater abilities. The room smelled of the incense and aromatic oils that had permeated the curtains, and the sweat of two men concentrating hard in a small, enclosed space.

Derik sometimes came here just to practice music without the distractions of his partner, her dragon, and the minis that shared his response center. Several of his instruments, nearly all rescues from badfic, had migrated here and not found their way back. Most were kept in the RC’s closet along with such things as spare strings, reeds, resin, and polish, but his favorite guitar lived on a stand in the back corner next to a small writing desk full of sheet music from multiple continua. He’d also acquired a three-legged, padded stool to sit on when he played, or just when he got fed up with the floor.

Today, Derik had sung a tune of his own making. He maintained that he was not a composer, and he was still reserved about singing, but his confidence that it wouldn’t turn him into a basement-dwelling madman had grown such that he was using his voice now as often as anything else. He had to admit, it felt good, and he was smiling as he returned his guitar to its stand.

“You performed that very well, brother,” said Thoth, sitting in his usual cross-legged position with his back to the RC door. As always for their sessions together, he wore a blue robe and, somewhat ironically, an enormous pair of sweatpants as a precaution against the Narrative Laws of Comedy.

“Thank you! I think the refrain still needs a little polish, but on the whole . . . ” Derik trailed off, suddenly feeling Thoth’s gaze on him. He turned. “What? What is it?”

“There is . . . something you should know.” The Astartes was looking at him with an unusually open and intense expression in his green eyes. An invitation?

Derik wasn’t sure what he would find, if anything, but he opened his mind. He couldn’t see auras like Thoth did, but after a lot of hard work, he had learned to separate the sensations of external emotions from his own in order to interpret them. He was instantly taken aback by what he felt, rolling off his friend in slow but powerful waves. There was no mistaking that heat, that ache, which rooted deep in the pit of the stomach and radiated outward. Derik’s breath hitched in his throat.

“But . . . I thought your conditioning did away with all that.”

“Mostly,” said Thoth, and Derik recalled that he had always included that word when the subject of his asexuality came up. “And it has been a very long time since then. The conditioning has, perhaps, faded.”

Derik’s head turned minutely back and forth as he processed what was he was being told. “Starting when?”

“Recently. In the last two months or so.”

“I had no idea.” Derik sank back onto his seat and pushed his long hair off his face. “Two months?” He couldn’t believe it—neither that this was happening, nor that he’d been blind to it, nor that his friend had hidden something of such import from him for so long.

“I . . . did not wish to tell you until I was certain.” Until this point, Thoth’s expression hadn’t wavered, but a slight flick of his eyes betrayed his anxiety.

“Certain?”

“Certain it would not go away. Certain it was . . . real. Yes.”

The full import of Thoth’s admission began to sink in. This wasn’t him telling Derik something strange that had happened during a mission, or sounding him about a perplexing interaction with other members of Headquarters. It was altogether more deep and more immediate.

“You are, then.” Derik’s throat had gone dry, so the words came out half-voiced. “You’re telling me . . . you want me.”

Thoth gave him a pained look that might have signified anything from irritation to pity. “Who else?”

“Oh, my friend,” Derik said, shaking his head. He didn’t know what to think, how to feel. “This is so sudden. And I’m not—you know I’m not—inclined that way.”

“Yes,” said Thoth, and he had closed himself off again so that the word was without inflection. “However, I thought it best to make you aware of the situation so that you may judge for yourself whether you wish to continue our association with this knowledge.” He rose to his feet, the slow unfolding of his massive frame always unexpectedly graceful. “I will leave you to think on it . . . brother.”

He turned and reached for the door. Derik almost let him go, mind and heart racing, but at the last second before Thoth turned the handle, Derik jumped up and put a hand on his friend’s forearm.

“Thoth, wait. Don’t be ridiculous—of course I want to continue! How could you believe otherwise?”

Thoth fell into one of his long silences, choosing his words. “This occurrence is . . . unexpected. Unnatural. Dangerous. Perhaps you would not wish to expose yourself to such a thing.”

“‘Thing’?” Derik scoffed, hearing the two-pronged meaning of the word even if it wasn’t intended. “Don’t say that. And how dare you imply that I would ever reject you for such a stupid reason? You should know me better by now.”

Thoth didn’t reply, and his face was set in the stony mask more typical of the early days of their friendship.

Despairing, feeling as though something precious was slipping away, Derik shook his head. “Don’t you understand? You are . . . ” He took a breath, sighed. “So many things to me. My brother. My mentor. My confidant. My greatest friend.” He tightened his grip on Thoth’s arm. “I’m closer to no one, not even my partner. Nothing can change that.”

“Perhaps,” Thoth said softly. “In which case, I could not become more than that to you, even if I were another mortal. As you said yourself, you are not inclined that way.”

“Mostly,” said Derik, and he had the satisfaction of seeing Thoth blink in surprise. “I was a dragonrider, and I was young once. I experimented.” He made a decision. On the end of another deep breath, he said, “For you, I would do it again, if you wish it.”

Thoth stood silently peering down at him for a long moment. He took his hand off the door handle and raised it to Derik’s face, using one broad thumb with utmost gentleness to stroke his unscarred cheek. It was such an incongruous gesture, and Derik felt his breath flutter in his chest.

His expression must have read as concerned, because Thoth abruptly pulled his hand back. “I do not desire your pity, or your condescension.”

“You haven’t got either!” Derik reached out and caught Thoth’s hand, clasping it tightly between his palms. “Read me, brother. Feel what I feel. I beg you.” Emphasizing his words, he pressed Thoth’s hand against his chest, over his pounding heart.

Standing like that, with the heat of Astartes blood radiating through his shirt into his flesh, Derik knew he wasn’t pretending his interest. And as he knew it, Thoth knew it, too. As his mental barriers lowered, his face softened, and a gleam of what might have been hope came into his eyes.

Derik smiled. “I only fear that I’m no match for you, in any regard.”

Thoth nodded slowly, never breaking his gaze. “The difficulty is . . . a practical one. Practical difficulties have practical solutions, for those willing to seek them. But let us not rush ahead. You are certain you want this?” His deep voice dropped to near inaudibility. “Me?” Psychic or not, some things needed to be said out loud.

“Yes,” Derik said, leaning forward into his touch. “More certain every second.”

A small smile twitched at the corners of Thoth’s mouth. “Your emotions still overrule you, brother. Have I taught you nothing?”

Derik smiled back. “You have taught me how to control them when I want to. Right now, I don’t want to.”

He pressed forward again. Thoth moved his hand around Derik’s shoulder, bent down, and tilted his head just so. Their lips met.

With the physical connection came a sharper, clearer sharing of feelings. Thoth’s attraction to Derik was like a landmass built up slowly over eons, finally breaching the surface of the waves that had buried it. It was subtle, but inexorable, and Derik thrilled to be the object of such power. The only feeling that had ever been more potent was—

Derik slammed his barriers back into place, and they both stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” Derik said quickly. He had caught a frisson of trepidation just before the connection cut off. “It’s not you, not you at all. It’s—shards, it’s what it always is.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and dug his fingers into his hair. He felt his anger rising and struggled to tamp it down again, repeating the first Enumeration in his mind.

“I understand,” Thoth said, but not without a hint of injury. “I recognize the signs in your aura.” He gave Derik a moment to collect himself, then said, “We will continue this discussion next time.”

Derik’s head snapped up. “What? No, I—”

“Yes. This . . . ‘experiment’ is as good a word as any. If we are to embark on this experiment together, there is much to consider. You must consider your needs and your safety. And I . . . I must consider whether I truly wish to become what this may make of me. It may not be worth the pain for either of us.”

Derik knew that if the two of them couldn’t live with pain, they would both have died long before they met. He knew that Thoth was one of the people in his life who made it bearable—better than bearable. Occasionally, even wonderful. And he didn’t give a shriveled fig for his safety.

He couldn’t muster the words to say all this, and he didn’t know if Thoth was still reading his aura. He said: “I won’t change my mind, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know you believe so. You are a stubborn man. It is sometimes quite irksome . . . and endearing.” Tentatively, he extended his hand, and when Derik took it without hesitation he pressed his lips together in a grim smile. “You would leap into a fire, knowing you would burn. So I tell you: Go home, brother. Consider long and well. I am patient. I can wait.”

“Patience isn’t always a virtue,” Derik muttered, frowning down at their feet. He hated that his psyche still was not proof against intrusive thoughts of the past and the attendant soul-deep agony of his loss; that he could be so rapidly chilled, as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice over him. He wanted the fire back.

But, he recognized that leaping into this would end up burning both of them. There was indeed much to consider.

He looked up to meet Thoth’s eyes again. “You’re right. We can’t go off half-cocked, as it were.”

No response to the admittedly tasteless joke.

Derik shook his head. “All right, don’t laugh. The point is, I’ll do as you say, because you’re smarter than I am. We will go—and when we meet again, we will make a plan.”

“As you say.” Thoth inclined his head. “Until then.”

He turned toward the door, but Derik was still holding his hand and didn’t let go.

“Brother?”

“Once more,” Derik said, turning up his chin. “Please. So you know there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Thoth hesitated, and Derik thought he might refuse. Just before he resigned himself to give up, though, Thoth responded, “As you wish,” and leaned down, supporting Derik’s back with his off-hand.

Derik was careful to keep his empathic sense locked down and simply focused on the physical sensation of the kiss. It was odd—Thoth’s mouth was over-sized, and his own was distorted by scar tissue. It was awkward, with the ten-inch height difference between them. It was, frankly, underwhelming.

Part of the problem, he realized with a twinge of compassion, was that Thoth had no idea what to do beyond the basic act of touching lip to lip. It was a skill he had not practiced for millennia, no exaggeration, and he was stock-still, stiff, barely even breathing.

Derik was out of practice himself, but at least the instinct was still there. With both hands, he reached up to stroke the smooth-shaven sides of Thoth’s head. His scalp felt warmer than the rest of him, and with hands like heating pads, that was saying something. Derik felt Thoth’s fingers clench into his jacket at the unfamiliar, too-familiar touch and was reminded of the Astartes’ sheer strength. One wrong move, and Derik’s life could be in very real jeopardy.

Perhaps that was something to think about later.

Thoth didn’t pull away, so Derik continued the motion, drawing his hands down slowly over Thoth’s ears and cheeks until they rested along his jaw. Like the rest of him, his face was heavily boned and thick with hard muscle, courtesy of the super-engineered growth hormones that went into the making of a Space Marine. The only softness to it was in his generously proportioned lips.

With that thought, Derik opened his mouth, just a little, and pulled Thoth’s upper lip into the gap, which it filled pleasantly.

Thoth made a low rumble in his throat: a hum of surprise or the start of a moan, Derik wasn’t sure. Either way, he broke it off there and withdrew altogether. He looked at Derik with inscrutable eyes. A light flush colored his pale cheeks a shade of rose.

“There, now,” Derik said, his voice roughened around the edges. “That was a kiss worth the name.”

No answer.

Derik grew concerned. “Are you all right with what I did?”

A curt nod. “Are you?”

Relief set loose a giddy laugh. “Yes! Trust me, please. This is real. I promise you.”

“I will not hold you to any promise that comes with so little thought as to the consequences,” Thoth said sternly. Before Derik could protest, he added, “But I thank you for the intent behind it. And for . . . ” Lost for words, he made a helpless gesture toward Derik.

He understood, and nodded.

Before things could get any more awkward, they left the room and went their separate ways, until next time.

---

A/N: So, what do you think, my lovelies? Convinced yet? Need more? Just feel like making a fool of yourself with mindless judgements? Let me know!

--Lemony

Are you waiting for little ol' me to kick things off? That's so sweet! You didn't have to do that! I'll totally start, though. Without further ado, I give you:

Title: Mostly
Author: Lemony Eggnog
Rating: M (eventually)
Genre: Friendship/Romance

Summary: Learning to love again isn’t easy, especially when it shouldn’t be possible. But, as a certain masked man once said, none of us can choose where we will love. Nothing is ever one hundred percent certain. Only . . . mostly.

Author’s Note: They said it couldn’t be done. I said Challenge Accepted.

Disclaimer: I don't own the PPC or any of its agents. The PPC was invented by Jay and Acacia, whose boots I am not fit to lick. Derik belongs to Neshomeh, and Thoth belongs to Thoth (shocker, right?). Their totally obvious yet criminally unfulfilled chemistry is my gift to you, dear reader.

--Lemony

(( Chapter to follow in another post, because with the notes and all it was just over the word limit, and I need space for HTML. ))

While I must appreciace the varicosity of this daring, experimental work, it's laking in severl impotent aspects.

I found that the joe, such as it was, fell flat, ar lest to my orbs.

Additionally, as a superir writer with a dearth of exponentially bettee work, I foind it excessively denegtating to see it implied that we all write "badfic".

It sum, unfunny, if a bit clever.

I now, i now, ppl are gonig to say its' "not a sotry" and "dosent make sents', but i lik it!! Is't metter, and the pPC is alabout metter.

>~JB~<

And relational fluff, I guess. Will see for flames later. Grilled corn looks interesting.


The Reader sighed and, in time honored alien tradition, switched screens to read the Librarian's latest message. It, at least, was written in familiar (if snippy) Gallifreyan. She skimmed it, already familiar with the contents.

...In short, I am well. No one is “closing doors in my face” as you have so eloquently put it. My research is proceeding…

Essentially, the Reader translated to herself, he's not run into any insurmountable problems in his retirement, or at least not any he wants to discuss with me, and I should stop bothering him about it unless he hints at a real problem. And never mind what happened the last time he did research in Gallifreyan territory, no, because history never repeats itself...
Sigh... I miss Des, SeaTurtle, July...


She sighed and flicked back to the first screen. The sky so bright as dark as night reminds me of the way you might stay for a slight amount of...night? Ugh. Awful. She erased the entire attempt, and sat glaring at the blank screen.
Yeeeaaah, preferable. Sorry, but no nice words were coming for this one.

How could it be that writing poetry was so difficult? She could speak for hours, couldn't she? And spot bad writing, and read very quickly, even if her tastes had never really run towards fiction except for those few years...why couldn't she do this?
Yeah can be quite hard. I remember my first French teacher in middle school asked us to compose one for a homeschool work all in alexandrines. He was a genuine sadist.

The Reader sighed. “Perhaps you're right,” she said, although the creature had done nothing but sit on her foot. “I'm no poet. Even my best attempts are rubbish.” She paused, considering. “Perhaps I should attempt to make her a piece of art…”
Alternative roads are always a thing. And that's coming from a guy seeing doggedness as a virtue.

Ten hours later, the pov had grown bored and wandered off again. Kozar had come back, had dinner, and gone to sleep; when he awoke and came out of his bedroom to find breakfast, the Reader had barely moved. The main difference was her hair: it had still been in the usual bun before, albeit with wisps beginning to come loose. Now, only a very little bit of the bun remained; most of the Reader's wavy light brown hair hung loose around her face, fluffier from the way she'd been clutching at it. Some of the ends were still caught in the bun, but that didn't much help: what was left of it was hopelessly lopsided.
Funny way to do your hair. Any tips for achieving this look?

“Ah,” said the Klingon. “It's a courtship ritual. You are finally going to attempt less pathetic flirtation with Naya.”
Hey, 'pathetic flirtation' is a time-honored tradition. It set up the foundation for the 'Just Kiss/Choice Verb Already' moment. Also makes the latter more worth it. As long as a direct moment does exist later down the line.

“Her partner does, though,” the Reader said. “He'd see it, and he'd know if it was done poorly.”

Kozar’s eyebrow went up again. “Isn't his handwriting so terrible you claim he’s invented Rectangular?”
Excellent point. He can't go glasshouse on a gift to your girlfriend with this, you know?

“He would still know,” the Reader insisted. “This needs to be perfect. I can't give her an inferior gift—and that would be insulting, as though I thought less of her because she's an alien—no, this must be done as well as though I were giving it to a fellow Time Lord. It has to be—”
Euuuu–

Kozar refrained from pointing out that neither he nor Naya nor even most of HQ could tell from looking at her work. “Then an imperfection or two is logical. Besides—don't aliens frequently prize handmade pieces with their small imperfections? Dawn once said it ‘means more.’”
Well, this for starters. Second, genuine gift to girlfriend. Will she really mind minor faults?

The Reader considered this, tapping her short fingernails against the table. “It still feels like I’m giving her something inferior. And she deserves the best, Kozar.”
Oh right, Gift To Love Interest. Logic doesn't apply.

The Klingon sighed. Aliens.
Resiting urge to comment about glasshouses and culture scorning... well, everything about culture except war.

The Reader blinked again. “I...could do that.”
Dunno, the 'all by yourself' always has its own appeal, like free stuff... No, I don't tell this to feel better about not being able to wrap up presents properly at twenty four.

Kozar rolled his eyes. “Make your own breakfast, Time Lord.”
That, and vital considerations like 'what is the proper dosage for coffee' can e different for some people. Don't ask breakfast from heretics using sugar.

He leveled a savage grin at her. “You should try it. Even with the Guardsman's training, your combat skills are abysmal.”
Your future poor dodge none withstanding, Xan, he has a point. Sure surprise and sneaky are the supposed ways to go, but you never skip on 'stay alive' skills... No matter how many extra lives you have.

The Reader rolled her eyes. “Yes, I believe it will be, for once. Let's eat and move.”

Kozar nodded, and picked up his fork. “A good plan.”
Dunno, it misses both a 'fight' step, and the so important '???, Profit!' ones.


Curious to see both the mission and the reaction to the gift... This interlude is just begging for a sequel, please!

And because of the perfect timing. This is your prompt for the fortnight.

Badfic.

AKA see above.

Novastorme.

I had a meal plan, so "shopping" was for things like granola bars to cram in my face in the morning if I didn't wake up in time to get breakfast in the cafeteria, because LOL, who does that? (I did. I did that. I like slightly chunky large-pot oatmeal very much.) That and gaming snacks, because D&D without Oreos is unthinkable.

I did have to cook for myself during my internship in Philly, though, and also my study-abroad in England, and I ate pretty well. Granted, we ate out a fair bit in England, because we were traveling around and there were interesting things to try, but still. You can do a lot with a bag of frozen chicken, pasta, and salad. Just switch out what else you're putting on top, make sure to use it up, and it works! One of my go-tos is fettuccine alfredo. I like the pouch sauce mix, but a jar is good, too. Add frozen peas and chicken, it's good stuff. Think I did a low-brow chicken parmesan at one point too, though that might have been one of the nights several of us got together for a group meal.

Maybe don't go with like half a bag of spinach and dried mango, though? I regretted that one. Had to eat the spinach, though...

Oh, and take care of your dishes. Don't be the jerk that lets things sit around for two weeks and become the birthplace of a new civilization of mold-based life forms.

~Neshomeh

That sounds like an ingredient. Don't you know that's a dirty word?

hS still remembers someone managing to set off the fire alarms by burning pasta in his first year at uni

You don't just crack an egg over your ramen while it's cooking?

And hey, if you're feeling really fancy, nuy some pre-cooked chicken and tear it up into chunks and put that in the ramen too.

Julius Caesar of Gallifrey! That was fun. ^^ I still have the file of all my excerpts from the dress rehearsal somewhere. (By which I mean 'the comments I made on the Board'; I wasn't actually involved with inventing the play itself, I don't think.)

This was cute, and it's good to know the Librarian is off happily making a mess of things. ^^

hS

Here is how you eat as a student.

1. Walk to freezer aisle.
2. Find Tesco/Sainsburys/Morrisons cheap ready-meals.
3. Buy as many as your freezer will hold.

With the option to buy them from the chiller aisle instead if you only have a fridge with an icebox.

What sort of student has time to much about with raw meat?!?!

^_~

hS

Yes, our noble Support team have worked round the clock to fix the damage done by the most recent Liechtenstein invasion and bring you an all new, all modern, all fanfic website! Among our new features are--

Hang on. Sorry. One minute please.

<sub>Where's the website? You promised me it would be up by today!

No, I can't 'wait a few weeks', this is going out live! They're already--

Well, have you at least got the servers running again? We could roll out the old code, call it 'retro'.

... what about the Fanfic Land code? Surely that still runs?

Then what have you been working on? Please tell me it hasn't all been World of Minecraft tournaments or whatever it is you get up to.

...

... right.</sub>

Sorry about that! As I was saying, we're still having a few minor technical hitches, but our all new Support team who I will be hiring as soon as the last bunch are out of the building are working to bring you the shiniest fanfic website on the internet! Until then, here's a sneak _{oh good grief} preview of our _{can't believe I'm about to do this} hi-tech, 3D logo, which will soon be adorning your screen in glorious HD!



Ta-da!

While we're getting the last few things ready for you and weeping into our artisan coffee, why not flex your fanfic muscles by writing for your favourite fandom - the PPC! Remember, if it's not 'canon', that just makes it all the more fun!

~Admin@fanficWorld

---

What is this? This is the thread where we let our inner badfic writers have free rein. All PPC stories are technically fanfics of the Original Series - but they're all goodfics. That's clearly unreasonable - most fanfic of anything is terrible. So this is your chance to write the baddest of the badfics. Go nuts!

Who can I write about? Any agents currently in the PPC are open for you to mutilate. There's a Creativity Shield around ffW, so everything here is emphatically uncanon. Try to avoid using abandoned agents whose creators have left, and if someone asks in this thread that their agents not be used, please respect that.

Where do I post? In this thread, please. With ffW down for the forseeable future, I'm afraid there is unlikely to be an archive this year.

What name should I post under? You should come up with the badficauthorest name you can, of course! Take a look at some of our previous examples.

What sort of story should I write? A bad one! Obviously. But also one that's fun to read. Illegible ultra-typo stories are a bit boring after the first one, y'know?

Can I leave reviews? Emphatically yes - that's half the fun of the game! But do remember to leave them in character - and equally, remember that the flames you receive are not real flames. They're a game. Don't get upset.

Do I need a beta? Hahahahahahahaha. Don't be ridiculous. ^-^ What sort of badfic writer has a beta?

Do I need Permission? Again, what sort of badfic writer asks permission? (No. No you don't.)

Why are we doing this? Because it's fun! And traditional!

hS

This is a non-spicy chili, because I'm a wuss, but you can always add cayenne or whatever to taste.

1) Brown and drain:

1 pound (16 oz) hamburger [called mince in the UK?]
1 onion, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste

2) Add:

2 16-oz cans diced tomato (or 1 plus 1 can tomato sauce [I prefer this way])
2 16-oz cans kidney beans (1 dark, 1 Mexican [a.k.a. chili beans]), rinsed and drained
1 16-oz can crisp and sweet corn, drained (or about 1.5 to 2 cups/12 oz frozen)
1 Tablespoon chili powder
1 Tablespoon brown sugar

3) Simmer 1/2 hour on the stove or heat 4 hours in a crock pot

4) Serve with sharp cheddar cheese (or whatever you like) on top.

One recipe is good for about four servings. If you have a big pot, you can double it and freeze extra portions for later.

~Neshomeh

I'm jumping into this arc with no knowledge of what's happened previously or down the road, but it seems like this is a pretty good place to do it. I don't feel like I'm missing anything, and I'm immediately drawn in and invested in the Reader's success. I wish her all the best with her gift! It's a sweet idea. ^_^

Love this line of Kozar's: “Ah,” said the Klingon. “It's a courtship ritual. You are finally going to attempt less pathetic flirtation with Naya.” And his Klingon-ness in general. Excellent foil to the Reader's twitterpatedness.

I did find one thing the three of you missed: lacking Kozar to muse briefly should be leaving Kozar to muse briefly. Easy thing for the eyes to glaze over since the words are the same length and share a bunch of letters.

~Neshomeh

1. My joke fics tend to be way long. Like, I couldn't finish "The New Recruit" or "Man on a Mission" in the time I was given. So I write a few chapters ahead of time and put an outline so that I can finish it with the time I've been given. (Speaking of MoaM, I'm still finishing it. It'll hopefully be out for the next Shipfest. Don't worry, Thoth/Guardsman Tom gets nullified in part 2. So does Twistey x Voyd. And there's an explanation for why Huinesoron was being so grumpy.)
   
   2. I can write out my badfic ideas, wait for them to simmer, and then if they're bad, I can destroy them before they get put on the Board. I've already decided to take out one of my fictional badficcers because she had no gimmick other than being really angry and calling the PPC the "Protectors of Cringe Culture" over and over. So that's a positive.
   
   -Twistey

...Well, after the initial hiccup, anyway. They visited a festival where the Harpers were playing, made a mess with bubbly pies, watched the dragonriders practicing flying formation at one of the weyrs, watched a few sunsets... it was lovely. :)

And you are right that Three won't be around for too much longer; her arc is coming to a close and we're just winding down with her settling into her life as Elanor's mum. It's time to shake things up again... :)